


Come Undone

by only_more_love



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Angst, F/M, Mentions of Rape
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2007-09-18
Updated: 2007-09-18
Packaged: 2018-11-11 09:54:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11146059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/only_more_love/pseuds/only_more_love
Summary: Who does Booth turn to on a night when his job feels like too much? Possible spoilers for Season 3. Rating for language and adult themes.





	1. Walking on broken glass

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: This story is rated R because of some adult themes, mild profanity, and some potentially difficult emotional content. 
> 
> The chapter below is set somewhere in the middle of season 3, which, in case you didn't already know, starts on September 25th. Woohoo:D
> 
> Hope you enjoy it, and even if you don't, feel free to let me know.

Oh simple thing where have you gone  
I'm getting old and I need something to rely on  
So tell me when you're gonna let me in  
I'm getting tired and I need somewhere to begin  
\- Keane, _Somewhere Only We Know_

She had just poured herself a glass of Syrah when she heard the doorbell chime. She wasn't expecting anyone and frowned at the thought that her Friday night plans - to dive into the latest issue of the Journal of Forensic Sciences and then have a quiet dinner - might be thwarted. A glance through the peephole told her it was Booth, clad in a bulletproof vest. He stood with his head bowed and shoulders slumped. She undid the deadbolt, opened the door. Booth looked up at the sound of the door opening, and she realized he was soaked from the rain that had been pouring from the sky for hours. His hair gleamed wet and nearly black in the light from the hallway, and droplets coursed down his cheeks, mimicking tears.

"Booth."

"Bones."

She frowned at the odd exchange and stepped back from the door, gesturing to him to enter. Wine sloshed over the lip of the glass and onto her hand. "Damn." She lifted her hand to her mouth and sucked the crimson drops, aware that Booth's eyes tracked the movement. "What?"

"Nothing," he said, looking away. Something in his expression made her stomach contract.

He stood in the middle of her living room, dripping, and looking curiously lost.

"Sit."

"I don't want to ruin your couch." He gestured vaguely at himself.

If his bedraggled appearance hadn't telegraphed that something was off, the fact that he made no comment about the black "Anthropologists do it in the field" t-shirt she wore would have warned her. That and the uncharacteristically brooding twist of his lips.

She shrugged. "It's a couch. It will dry. Just sit. I'll get you some towels." She left the room, returning with two blue towels and a neatly folded black t-shirt and sweatpants. She handed them to Booth and then retreated, arms folded across her chest.

He pulled the shirt and sweatpants from the bottom of the stack and shook them out.

His eyes shot to hers. "These are my clothes." The words were spoken as a statement, but she debated whether or not to answer the unspoken question lingering in his dark eyes.

She opted for a half-truth. "You left them here when Kenton was after me." The shock of that day's events had faded, but she could recall the fear all too easily. Her glance skittered away; she didn't want him to see the emotions that assaulted her whenever she remembered the night he was injured by the explosion in her kitchen. Experience had taught her that Booth's watchful eyes missed little – especially when it came to things she would rather conceal.

"Oh." Booth cocked his head slightly and watched her, unblinking. The wind picked up, dashing the rain against the windows. Temperance took a long swallow of wine and felt her heart hammer against her ribs.

Silence blanketed them. When she could stand it no longer, Temperance cleared her throat. She wanted to ask Booth why he was there, but something held her back. The weary set of his mouth and the hollowness in his eyes communicated enough, for the moment.

"I should change." Booth rose, his body grazing hers as he brushed past on his way to her bathroom. She inhaled, scenting the rain on him.

She waited until she heard the door click shut before she flopped down on the couch and rubbed her forehead. Closing her eyes, she tried to regain her equilibrium.

"What are you drinking?" She jumped at the sound of Booth's voice, hand flying to her throat. She'd been so deep in thought that she hadn't heard him come back out. The bulletproof vest had disappeared, and he'd changed into his sweats and his shirt, which clung to his chest and shoulders like a lover's embrace. His hair no longer lay flat against his head. Instead, it was mussed, as if he'd scrubbed it roughly with a towel. His expression, however, had not altered. Exhaustion and perhaps pain had etched lines into his face, compressed his usually smiling mouth into a thin line, left his cheeks pale and bloodless. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you."

Temperance wondered briefly if a double meaning lay beneath his words. "It's a Syrah I brought back from Chile. I was there a few years ago, helping identify remains found in unmarked graves after Pinochet was overthrown. It's quite—"

Booth slipped the glass from her hand. Temperance found herself unable to look away as he raised it to his lips. His throat worked as he swallowed; her mouth went dry.

"—good," she finished quietly.

Under different circumstances, she would have scolded him. Now, she merely watched, transfixed, as he licked his lips before handing the glass back to her. She noted how his hand shook, jostling the remaining wine in the glass. She accepted the glass without comment, absently fingering the stem, face burning at the knowledge that his mouth had just touched the spot where hers had been moments earlier. The subtle intimacy of the act reverberated through her. "Excuse me." She got to her feet, intending to duck into the kitchen to clear her head. Three steps and Booth spoke, halting her escape.

"I wanted to drive to Atlantic City. I almost did. I wanted it so bad I could taste it. I called my sponsor. We talked. He told me to get to a meeting. Couldn't find one. So here I am."

She set her glass down on the coffee table and turned to face Booth, moving until she stood directly in front of him. "I see...Where's Parker?"

"He's at his friend's birthday party."

"Maybe you should go see him. Maybe that would help."

Booth shook his head. "No. I don't want him to see me like this. It would scare him. But I called." A ghost of a smile touched his lips and then vanished. "He told me they're having pizza _and_ cake _and_ ice cream."

Brennan turned the information over in her mind. Booth hadn't gone to see his son because he didn't want to scare him with his emotional state. Instead, he'd come to see her. Why?

"What triggered it?"

He dug the heels of his hands into his eyes and shook his head silently.

She stepped back.

He looked up, reached out and caught her right hand so she couldn't move, then tugged her back toward him. Her hand looked small and white in his. The observation frightened her; she made to pull her hand from his firm grasp. Distance. Yes, a little distance would be good.

But his grip didn't loosen.

"Booth." She cringed inwardly at how weak her voice sounded.

Exhaling a shaky breath, he finally released her hand. Relieved, she started to back away, only to be brought up short when Booth wrapped his arms around her waist and pressed his cheek against her abdomen.

She gasped and froze, hands at her sides. She felt her face heat. Knew her eyes must be wide and startled. What was he doing? Panic flooded her, and she stiffened further.

Inhaling deeply, she squared her shoulders and risked looking down. His hair was damp and tousled, and she couldn't see his face because it was pressed against her. But his breath and the heat of his skin scalded her through the thin cotton of her t-shirt, almost as if nothing separated their bodies.

He was upset. That much was obvious. What was less clear was what he wanted from her. In a moment of insight, she silently acknowledged that there must be times when he didn't know how to deal with her. And yet he tried, bringing her Jasper after she'd shot Gil Lappin, risking his career to give her back her mother's earring, holding her when the knowledge of her true identity threatened to swallow her whole. And those were just the times that immediately sprang to mind. She knew there were more. He was a good partner, instinctively supporting her when she needed it - even when she didn't know how to ask for it.

She should attempt to do the same. No, she _wanted_ to do the same. She just didn't recognize the right course of action. Angela would have known what to do. For a split second, Brennan envied her friend her easy understanding of people. Frustration filled her mouth with bitterness.

She swallowed, hard. "Booth, tell me what I can do. I want to help; I just don't know how."

"Bones..." Her chest constricted at the husky tenor of his voice. "Just don't run, ok? Don't run."

He knew her too well. She didn't want to lie to him; he deserved better from her. "I'll— I'll try."

"I'm scared shitless, Bones. I keep telling Parker there's no such thing as monsters, but you and I know better than that. The things we see - the sick, fucked-up things people do to each other. God, does it even matter what I do?"

His anguished admission shamed her as she remembered his words to her after she'd told him she wished he wouldn't let her keep hugging him when she got scared. _"If I get scared, I'll hug you."_ She cursed herself for being a coward.

She forced her hands to uncurl and slowly raised them, letting one rest on his back and allowing the other one to drift to his hair. Her heart thundered in her chest, echoing the storm outside, and the muscles in her legs tightened in preparation for flight. She fought it, willing herself to stay.

Finally, something in her loosened, and she moved her hand, tentatively smoothing Booth's hair back from his face. It surprised her how soft it felt under her fingers, surprised her how much she wanted to touch it again. Slowly she moved to kneel before him on the floor, wrapped her arms around him. He sighed, his warm breath stirring the hair by her ear. She succumbed to the impulse to sift her fingers through his damp hair again.

For long moments, they didn't move.

Only when her knees began to hurt did Temperance change position, moving to sit beside Booth on the couch. She took one of his hands and tucked it between both of hers. "Tell me what happened."

"We got a tip that one of the guys on our ten most wanted fugitives list was in the area. Tom Gallagher. He's a convicted sex offender and alleged child pornographer. He did time in Tennessee. Got out two months ago and kidnapped two kids from Mississippi - a six-year-old boy and his eight-year-old sister." He closed his eyes tightly, fighting for control.

She squeezed his hand, silently encouraging him to continue. "There was…There was footage circulating that made us think the kids might still be alive. Another agent tracked down a witness who said she saw a man fitting Gallagher's description in her neighborhood, with two kids. He was staying in a shack out in Southeast. We took a team out there. Had him surrounded. We were too late. Too fucking late." He pounded his free fist into his thigh. "The bastard shot himself in front of us." He snatched his hand from her grasp and bent forward with his head between his knees. She rubbed his back as he took several shuddering breaths.

Slowly, he uncurled. "The kids - we found them under his bed. Tommy and Michelle Cole. He'd carved them both up. Probably just four or five days ago." He grimaced in disgust. "Jesus, Bones, the smell. It was unbelievable. We found his camera and his latest footage, too, all neatly archived on dvds. Like a fucking artiste. What he did to those kids, what's on those dvds - it's burned into my brain."

"Then I started thinking, what if it had been Parker? It could have been him instead of those poor kids. It could still be him. For every dead Gallagher there are at least dozens more alive, doing these heinous things. And I can't stop them. How can I possibly stop them all? But if I can't, what good is my badge? Or my gun? Or my training?" He splayed his fingers against his chest. "What fucking good am I?"

Comprehension dawned, and with it, compassion. How could she ever have thought Booth was shallow? Cupping his face in her hands, she forced him to look at her. "Listen to me. I don't believe in God, but I know you do. You're not God. You're not omnipotent. You're just a man - a good man." When he tried to pull away, she held fast.

"And that matters, Booth. It has to. So many people walk through life only caring about their tiny corner of the world. But not you. You've made it your life's work to catch criminals - the majority of whom hurt people you don't even know. Every day, you risk your life for strangers. Because you care. And it costs you. Dearly. Some days the cost is your own flesh. Other days, like today, it's your mental health. No, you can't possibly stop them all. But what matters is that you try. If people like you didn't exist, no one would ever feel safe." She moved her hands to his shoulders and gently shook him. "That's what fucking good you are."

Booth sighed and looked down at his hands. "Do you mean that?"

"Yes, I do."

"Are you sure?" Gone were the laughter and charm he usually donned like full-body armor, leaving in their place a wrenching vulnerability.

"Yes, I'm sure."

"That makes one of us. Right now, all I'm sure of is that sooner or later, we all wind up a pile of bones. No telling when or why. No guarantees."

No guarantees. She had spent her entire life trying to be safe, rational. But where had it gotten her? Her mother was murdered. Her brother and father were in prison. She'd been buried alive, shot at, and nearly fed to dogs. Neither heaven nor any kind of afterlife existed. Species could maintain stasis for long periods of time, but if they never evolved, they became extinct. Was it rational to continue to do things the way she'd always done them simply because that was all she knew how to do?

No, it wasn't.

Yes, sooner or later, they would all wind up a pile of bones.

"I don't want to think. I don't want to see. Every time I close my eyes, I see Tommy and Michelle, stuffed under that bed like garbage. Then I see Parker…." He drove his fingers into his hair. " I just don't want to see anymore, Bones." _Please._

The word was unspoken, but she heard it.

Was her desire to comfort this man - a man she knew would die to protect her - so wrong? She made her decision. Looking into his eyes, she laid her palm flat against his chest, above his heart. The strong, steady beat reassured her. She leaned forward until their breath mingled.

"What are you doing?" he whispered.

"Crossing the line," she whispered back, watching the surprise flicker across his face in the seconds before their lips met.

Soft. His lips were so soft, she thought. Her mouth barely brushed his before her body caught fire. Booth shifted closer, trapping her hand between their bodies. He traced her lips with the tip of his tongue, making her shiver, until she opened for him. The world narrowed to the delicious sweep of his tongue against hers. She tasted the fruit and oak of the wine they'd shared, and something else, something dark and hot. When she moaned in the back of her throat, he captured it with his mouth.

He broke away first, chest heaving as he fought for air. Temperance stared at him, dazed and trembling, fingers pressed to her lips. Booth was no longer pale, their kiss having brought some color to his face. That made her smile.

"Was that a pity kiss?"

"What?"

"Did you kiss me because you felt sorry for me?" The words sliced her open with the precision of a scalpel, leaving her raw and exposed.

"No. I kissed you because I care about you." Anger flared suddenly, white-hot and cleansing. "Is that acceptable, or would it make it easier for you if I had done it out of pity?"

"I should go." With those three words, she saw his walls go back up.

"No, damn it." She grabbed his arm, furious that he would beg her not to run and then turn around and try it himself as soon as they got too close. "Neither one of us gets to run away tonight." She knew she was almost yelling, but for once she didn't care about appearing calm and unperturbed. "For all your talk about lines we can't cross, you're here, aren't you?" She released him, folding her arms across her chest and raising her chin in challenge. "Why are you here, Booth? Of all the places you could have gone tonight, why did you come here?"


	2. Fail with consequence, lose with eloquence.

"I don't know." His eyes focused everywhere but on her, and the urge to grasp his chin and _make_ him look her in the eye flashed through her with such power that her hands curled into fists.

"Don't lie to me." Temperance realized her lips were trembling and clamped her jaw shut.

"I...I don't know why I came here." He shook his head and turned away from her, shoulders bowed like Atlas. "I'm sorry I bothered you."

"Fuck you, Booth. I never took you for a coward." The words were out, and she couldn't take them back.

Booth's back stiffened and his head came up. "I'm not a coward."

"Then tell me the truth. You came here for a reason, and I want to know what it is. Please." There was a pleading note in her voice, and she hated herself for it — and Booth for putting it there.

Slowly, he turned to face her. "All right. I came here because I needed to see you. Because I thought you would understand. Because—"

"I do," she said, unable to resist interrupting. "Or at least I'm trying," she amended.

"—I can breathe a little easier when I'm with you."

The words trembled in the air between them, alive and nearly corporeal.

"But I know it was a mistake."

"What? Coming here tonight or kissing me back?"

"Both."

"Why?"

"Look," he said with a sigh, "I wasn't thinking clearly." Temperance knew it wasn't rational, but Booth's words turned her stomach to ice. Still, she willed herself to ignore the cold and plow forward. She would not back down.

"Oh, I understand now. You only kissed me back because you weren't thinking clearly. Stupid me for thinking that something was happening here, between us."

"But it _can't_ happen, Bones. Don't you see that?"

"Obviously, I'm not your type," she said, continuing as if she hadn't heard him, the ice melting as her gut began to burn. "Not blond. Not as good with people as I am with bones." She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced out the next words. "Perhaps just not good enough for you."

"No." One word — a bullet. Booth began to pace, hands on his hips, holding back a phantom suit jacket — a gesture so familiar it made her ache. "No, that's not it at all. Bones, you're plenty good enough. That's the problem. You're too good."

"What does that mean?" For a moment, she wished for their easy banter, for Booth's smug smile and laughing eyes and the crackling retorts that always sprang so easily to her lips. But there was no ease in this. Nothing familiar but the man standing in front of her. She had crossed the line by kissing him, but she'd done it without a map. Now she had no idea where to go next.

"Look at me," he said, and she did. He ceased moving, arms spread wide, and laughed humorlessly. "I'm a mess. An addict. Fifty kills to atone for. You've seen my x-rays. I'm broken, Bones. You know where and you know why."

Broken? He was no more broken than anyone else.

She stared at him, and it _hurt_ her to see the self-loathing distorting his familiar features. How could eyes that saw so much in others, ferreting out secrets and lies, be so blind?

Yes, the x-rays had shown her the ghostly evidence of the fractures in his feet and the scarring that revealed he'd been injured while trying to shield someone. That was Booth — always trying to shield someone from something. But who shielded him?

Her lips twisted and her throat felt heavy with the need to speak the right words — the ones he needed to hear in order to understand. "More often than not, fractures heal. It's a natural, if sometimes painful and imperfect process." She hesitated, silently debating whether or not to tell him. The answer presented itself when she remembered Booth's long ago declaration that partners shared things. He'd shared with her tonight, telling her about Tom Gallagher. She could certainly try to do the same. She realized with a pang then how much he already knew — about her dysfunctional family, her passwords, and even the awkward, gawky girl who'd wanted to take dance lessons.

"I traveled to El Salvador several years ago in order to perform identifications at mass graves. I was in a tent near one of the sites, working on the remains of a young girl who'd been shot in the head and then dumped in a well. A police officer, possibly a soldier, showed up. I assumed he was sent to guard me, but he told me to stop. I refused, so he called in two other men. They bound my hands and feet, put a bag over my head, and dumped me in a cell with a dirt floor and no windows—"

"God," he said, scrubbing his hands over his face. "Just...I'm sorry, Bones. I didn't know."

She held up a hand, stalling him. If she paused too long, the words would die in her throat. "Let me finish. They held me captive for three days. Three days that felt like more than a week. He told me that he would kill me and toss me in a well, so no one would ever know who I was or what had happened to me." The irony had not been lost on her. She raised her gaze to meet his, determined not to flinch. The truth was the truth was the truth — and it could not be changed. "He raped me, Booth," she said, voice steady even if her hands were not. They shook, opening and closing as if scrabbling for something to hold onto.

No one had heard those words from her before. No one, save the doctors. Not even Angela knew the details of what had happened in El Salvador.

She hadn't uttered the words before.

The writer in her understood the power of words.

It hit her then, how much motion there was in Booth, even when he appeared still. It was something he had taught her, through countless interrogations, even though she hadn't yet mastered the lesson — how to read the stories the body, the face, the breath, and the voice could tell. His inhalation sounded sharp enough to cut glass. Eyes wide, bottomless, dark, as if immune to the light in the room. Shadows limning the crescents under his eyes. Concern, scored into the lines in his forehead. Pain, carved into the parentheses around the axis of his mouth.

Pain?

"That's when I learned that sex can be used as a weapon. But I survived, Booth. So you see, things break, but they heal, too."

Booth moved closer, taking her empty, grasping hands in his. The touch completed the circuit, sending a jolt through her. Did he feel it too? His fathomless eyes traveled the contours of her face as if seeing her for the first time. Perhaps trying to read the story there.

"I'm sorry. I wish you didn't have to go through that." He squeezed her hands and held her gaze without blinking. It was so like him, to provide comfort when she should be comforting him.

It occurred to her then that maybe she shouldn't have told him. There were complex rules that governed social interaction, rules that, to her great frustration, could not be found in any text. Maybe she'd broken one of them with her revelation. She had only sought to make a point, to share something the way he had. She hadn't wanted to turn the focus to her issues, didn't want to be just one more thing for which he felt responsible. "We hadn't even met yet, Booth. There's nothing you could have done."

"I'd kill him if I could." Temperance saw the truth of it in his eyes, heard the conviction in his voice.

"I know. So would I." She searched his eyes and concentrated on the sensation of his skin against hers, feeling it in every bone, muscle, and tendon, knowing it might be all she would ever have of him. Wanting it, it and something more, even though she hadn't realized it until he appeared at her door, with rain his hair and despair in his eyes.

"You know, I have my own list. Granted, there is only one name on there right now — Gil Lappin." Her recognition that Booth was right about them all ending up a pile of bones gave her the courage to continue, even as the breath caught in her throat and her pulse pounded in her ears. "I would shoot him a hundred times if it meant saving you." The hyperbole caused heat to steal over her cheeks.

His grip tightened, and she felt the bones in his hands flex. "I don't want that for you," he said, and she knew he meant it, knew that he understood, better than all of them, what it cost to take a life.

"I know."

He dropped her hands and stepped back, shaking his head and making her want to shake him. "You know what my job is like, Bones. You know how dangerous it is. You deserve better."

"You don't get to make that decision for me. I'm a grown woman, Booth. It's not your job to protect me from you." Thanks to her martial arts training, Temperance knew just how to break Booth's nose with a palm strike. But she was beginning to realize not everything could be accomplished with force, and she couldn't force Booth to step back over that invisible yet very real line.

"You're wrong. It _is_ my job to protect you."

The memory came to her in a flash. Bedtime... Her parents taking turns reading her the Brothers Grimm version of Cinderella. In that version, the stepmother had forced her daughters to cut off pieces of their feet so they would be able to fit into the gold slipper the prince had managed to capture.

She wasn't Cinderella, and if Booth wanted her to wear the gold slipper of their old relationship, she would have to cut off a part of herself to do it.

Could she do that?

All at once she felt very tired. With the fatigue came a creeping sense of shame. Booth anchored her when circumstance threatened to buffet her every which way. Clearly it was asking too much to think she could do the same for him. He'd come to her seeking comfort; she understood that much. And she'd kissed him, further tangling things when she should have brought clarity. How could she have thought that was the right thing to do? Worse still, she'd kept him there when he wanted to leave. It had been selfish, and she had no right, she acknowledged. They were partners. That was all. Partners didn't have that kind of claim over one another.

She turned and walked toward the couch. She sank down on one end, near the armrest, and folded her legs, hugging her knees to her chest. "When our partnership began, my most meaningful relationships were with dead people. That was three years ago. I like to think that's no longer the case."

"It's not." The rough timbre of his voice made her close her eyes.

"Due in no small part to you, Booth."

He didn't respond, and his silence filled her with numbness. No more ice, no more fire. Only numbness.

She couldn't look at him. "I'm...sorry I didn't know the right thing to do. The right thing to say. If you'd like to leave now, I won't stop you. But if it's all right with you, I'd like to forget all this." The words caught in her throat, their razor edges making her bleed as she spoke them.

The floor creaked as he walked toward her, his bare feet nearly soundless. "You did the right thing, Bones." He sighed. "I don't want to leave." Though her eyes were still closed, she felt the heat emanating from his body as he came to stand next to her. "And I don't think I can forget this." His fingers whispered over her hair, drawing a shiver from her. "Don't think I want to. Is that really what _you_ want? To forget?"

Temperance let her head tilt to the left so that it rested against Booth's hip. She opened her eyes. "No."


	3. Drawing circles in your concrete.

Brennan didn't know if she was actually cold or just reacting to the slide of Booth's fingers through her hair, but gooseflesh rose on her bare arms. Her muscles contracted and Booth let his hand slip away as he stepped in front of her. The absence of his touch echoed in her stomach; she quelled the impulse to reach for his hand. Don't ask for too much, her mind cautioned.

"Cold?" he asked, his voice shivering over and under her skin.

From her position on the sofa she stared up at him, cataloging his height and the way his t-shirt molded to his shoulders and his sweatpants hung from his lean hips. Such coiled power lay in his large frame, and yet he stood motionless except for the nearly imperceptible rise and fall of his chest as he watched her, blinking slowly. He didn't sway or shuffle his bare feet like any other person would have—just stood, patient and still, as if his body had grown out of the hardwood floor—as if he had always been there, a sentinel in her living room.

But this was just an illusion. A trick of her writerly imagination perhaps, she thought with a small smile she fervently hoped he didn't see.

For he hadn't always been there, any more than she had. He had lived in other places, trod dusty ground in different climes, sometimes with booted feet, before circumstance had gathered them in this city where idealism and corruption made their bed together night after night.

What did she really know of this man looming over her, his face bifurcated by light and shadow? She knew he could harness the latent power in his muscles and transmute it into lethal force if necessary. If he was pushed too far, his eyes would shade nearly black with rage. She'd seen it. And yet his eyes as they looked at her now shone with gentleness. Honesty compelled her to admit she had never felt less than safe in his presence. That feeling of safety dazzled her more than his famous smile or admittedly solid structure ever had. When she looked at him now, it wasn't sexual desire that stirred within her but something worse—the reckless, dangerous desire to lean just a little—and let him lean on her.

Shoulders that broad might bear the weight of her hungers, secrets, and fears with ease.

Then again, those shoulders already bore significant weight.

Strength, yes, but at what price?

She looked away, lips parted on a quiet sigh that was almost lost amidst the steady thrum of rain against her windows. "I don't know," she answered honestly. Had she been driving, the relentless rain and the heavy fog would have prevented her from seeing more than a few feet ahead of her. This was no different. She'd offered him a choice, and he'd chosen to stay. But as she searched her mind, she found herself unable to answer the question of what came next. One thing she was sure of; this was not a man to pull into her bed for a night's worth of release. With a shiver she couldn't conceal, she turned her head to stare at one of the many bookcases that guarded the walls of her apartment.

Sitting in her kingdom, surrounded by her belongings, Temperance Brennan found herself lost.

"If it makes you feel better"—the low words drew her attention back to him—"I don't know either." There. He'd done it again; he'd read the meaning beneath her words like he could see into her mind. Frightening thought, that. Something had changed tonight—as if their mutual admissions had peeled back layers of skin, muscle, and bone. What she saw before her was the same man who'd woken her with cups of strong coffee on countless mornings as she slumbered at her desk. The same man who always, always sat in the driver's seat and parried every one of her verbal thrusts with the skill and grace of someone who'd been doing it for years. Which he had.

The same man...only not. A paradox then. She had always hated those.

Or perhaps she'd never truly seen him before.

"But you need to hear me when I say this." He knelt in front of her, body folding almost soundlessly.

"Say what?" When she inhaled, the scent of rain on him hit her again, leaving her lightheaded.

Warm hand on her chin, coaxing her into looking at him. "Don't ever think you're not good enough. Whatever your faults—and believe me, you've got plenty of 'em..." He trailed off, mouth shifting into a small but genuine smile as he took in her narrowed eyes and pursed lips. "I wouldn't change a thing about you."

Warmth flooded her even as she pulled her chin from his grasp and rolled her eyes in disbelief.

"What?" he asked, pulling a face. "I really wouldn't. I know I'm lucky to have you as my partner and friend."

"Have I been a good friend to you, Booth?" she asked, scanning his face for the truth even as she waited to hear it from his lips. A certain relief accompanied her discovery that their relationship hadn't altered so much that they could no longer engage in their usual repartee, but it didn't keep the serious note from her voice.

The smile faded from Booth's lips, and his eyes turned somber again. Seconds passed in silence as he rubbed his hand over his jaw and appeared to consider her question. She was thankful that he didn't answer automatically; she wasn't looking for a lie. "Yes, you have," he finally answered, nodding thoughtfully. "But why would you even doubt that?"

"Sometimes I wonder if I even know how to be a friend." Unlike many of the other things she'd said to Booth tonight, these words weren't carefully considered; they simply tripped over her tongue and fell from her mouth.

"You know, Bones. Maybe you don't always trust what your instincts tell you about how to be a friend, but you know."

"Hm," she replied, digging her fingers into the sofa cushions.

Booth must have heard the skepticism in her voice. "Friends listen," he said, stressing the second word, "and you did that for me tonight, even though it was scary for you."

She shifted and opened her mouth.

"If you're about to tell me it wasn't, don't bother. I know you better than that—"

He did, so she closed her mouth and forced herself to swallow the words of protest that surfaced.

"—and you've done it before. Lots of times." He cocked his head to the side. "And friends tell each other when they're being stupid." A pause during which the sparkle reappeared in his eyes. "We both know you've got that covered."

"Thank you for your reassurances, Booth," she said, eyebrow raised.

"Anytime, Bones," he replied, flicking her a familiar grin and rising to his feet. "Now, I'm starving. Got anything to eat?"

"I wasn't expecting company. Why don't you order something?" She stood and headed toward her bedroom to pull on a warmer shirt. "The menus are in the drawer by the refrigerator," she called over her shoulder.

"Like I didn't already know that," Booth shot back. The indignation evident in his voice brought a smile to her face.

When she returned to the living room after changing into a warm sweater, she found Booth sitting on her couch with a glass of her Syrah cradled in his hand. He swirled it, gazing into the purple-red liquid as if it contained the answer to every question humankind had ever asked. As he looked up, she again observed the shadows under and in his eyes. Somehow they were more noticeable when his face was unsmiling and in repose, as it was now. "Hope you don't mind. I figured since the bottle was already open..." He trailed off, fingers clenching around the glass.

"I don't mind," she said, sitting beside him. Close enough that she could feel the heat of him, but not close enough to touch. She reached for her glass—he'd refilled it—and took a sip. Closing her eyes, she let the wine settle in her stomach and warm her. When she opened her eyes, she found him watching her out of the corner of his eye. The weight of his gaze pressed against her skin. She sighed and set her glass back on the coffee table. "Just say it." Turning her head to look at him directly, she said, "Whatever it is you want to say to me, I'd appreciate it if you'd simply articulate it."

"I'm sorry you were...raped." The moment's hesitation didn't escape her notice.

"I know, Booth. You already said that."

"I think it's worth repeating, Bones. It's the worst thing a man can do to a woman."

She stiffened. "No, it's not. They could have killed me. They could have cut off my hands so I wouldn't be able to do what I do best. Either of those would have been worse."

"Yeah, but—"

"But nothing," she said, interrupting him. "Look, I really don't think you're in a position to say one way or another," she continued, voice rising. "You weren't raped. You don't know what it was or wasn't like."

"So why don't you tell me?"

"I already did. I have nothing else to say on the subject at this time." Crossing her arms over her chest, she glared at him. "Regardless, you didn't come here tonight to discuss my history or issues. If we're going to talk about anything of that nature, it should be about your history and your issues. So"—she gave him her full attention—"why don't you tell me more about your gambling problem?"

"I don't want to talk about that right now."

"Well, I don't want to talk about what happened to me either."

"Fine."

"Fine."


End file.
